


A Vision in a Dream: A Fragment or The Halperts go back farther than you'd think

by Rocketbride



Category: The Office (US)
Genre: Dunder-Mifflin, Family History, I fudged the early history of DM, M/M, One Shot, Perfect Storm, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Pre-Canon, inspired by a dream, jet skis, nursing home, the Schruperts strike again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26804800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rocketbride/pseuds/Rocketbride
Summary: It turns out that Jim's grandpa really did work for Dunder-Mifflin in the old days.
Relationships: Jim Halpert/Dwight Schrute
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27





	A Vision in a Dream: A Fragment or The Halperts go back farther than you'd think

If there was one thing that never got tired, it was making Dwight upset because he, Jim, was the better salesman. Jim had just hung up after closing his biggest yearly order, and he was not above making a small show of taking out his tiny champagne bottle as Dwight watched.  
“I’m so good, Dwight, that I only need to make one sale a year.”  


Dwight grimaced. He took a Glengarry Glen Ross attitude toward his job, although Jim was certain he had never seen the play. The idea of relying on a big score while letting a host of smaller opportunities pass him by was anathema. “Ugh, you are so lazy, Halpert. How did you even get this job?”  


“My grandpa used to work for Robert Mifflin Senior.”  


“What??”  


Jim winced inwardly, being careful not to break his customary smug façade. He had not meant to tell the truth, at least not this early on. He could usually spin some fable and work his seatmate into an entertaining froth for hours, if not days. But he was distracted; while he was working on the small but satisfying cork, Roy Anderson had dropped by to casually tell his fiancée Pam that he and Kenny were going jet skiing this weekend, “not to some boring museum, come on, Pam.” He could hear her protest, quietly so as not to make a scene and full of sadness as if she knew the way this argument would end. She did, in fact, and so did Jim. Meanwhile, Dwight was still honking on across the desks.  


“There is no way that you are a legacy here, Jim. You must think I’ll believe anything.”  


Says the man who thought I could telepathically communicate with birds, he thought. “I know it’s hard to believe Duh-wight, but it’s true. My grandfather put in a good word when I graduated from college. I actually used to volunteer for the company picnics when I was in high school.”  


“We haven’t had a picnic since the ferry sank in Lake Wallenpaupack in ‘93,” Dwight mused. His eyes narrowed, considering. “Huh. Maybe.” Jim watched the emotions play out on his rival’s face, the desire to disprove another crazy trick battling with the desire to know more about the company he loyally served as Assistant to the Regional Manager. Long experience with Jim Halpert’s pranks ultimately won out. “Nah. You’re full of pig manure, Halpert.”  


This was the beginning of a full fortnight of debate and disbelief. At first Jim played it like an expert angler; sowing doubt, offering proof, then letting Dwight chew on his own warring impulses. Finally, goaded by another close call with a client who abruptly quit, he decided to end this new amusement.  


“Listen Dwight, I can prove it. I have pictures.”  


“Uh, pictures can be faked, Jim.” Dwight shot back, relishing his own cleverness.  


“Hey, you want to know the truth? My grandpa is in a nursing home in Carbondale. We can visit him tomorrow. Settle this.” Jim could almost see the gears grinding in Dwight’s high forehead.  


“So you can find some poor old opa and pay him off to lie to me? I don’t think so.”  


“Why don’t you boys go now?” Phyllis broke in. She tuned in and out of their arguments on a regular basis, spectating to pass the time as she knit a particularly boring bit of her latest project. As usual, she had a point.  


The men locked eyes, considering. Michael was currently bunkered down in his office, avoiding Pam and the monthly deadlines with all his limited cunning. They had at least 4 hours until he relented and signed the paperwork, and all of their usual work was already done; without Michael’s “entertainments” they were able to finish a day’s work in three quarters of the time. Dwight gave Jim a hard stare, working carefully through the same reasons Jim had just flown through. He came to a decision, picking up his briefcase and walking toward the coat tree.  


“Ok, Jim. Call the nursing home. Let’s see what your ancestors have to say about you.”  


“I’m sure they’re very disappointed in me,” he returned easily, shrugging on his satchel and tossing Pam a wink. She rewarded him with a little smile, far from her megawatt delight but better than nothing.  


“No doubt,” Dwight agreed.

*~* 

The drive over was relatively uneventful; Dwight insisted on sitting in the back left seat and in retaliation Jim blasted “Little Fluffy Clouds” and the CD “A Hundred Days Off” until both of them were sick of futuristic beats, Dwight openly and Jim privately. The reception staff were pleasantly surprised to have visitors, and when the nurses referred to both of them as “grandsons” of Bruce Halpert, Dwight was examining a plant in the corner and Jim was too charmed to correct them.  


“Jimmy.” Bruce was in the middle of a puzzle when they walked into the common room, and he greeted them without lifting his head. He was pretty much exactly as Jim remembered him from the Labour Day barbecue at his aunt’s house: older than God and twice as sharp. On that occasion he had discussed politics, recent episodes of Jeopardy and why the perfect potato salad did not include onions, contrary to what “those Eye-talians on the cooking shows want you to believe.” Dwight and Jim sat in the two chairs opposite him.  


Dwight leaned forward. “HELLO SIR. MY NAME IS DWIGHT SCHRUTE. I WOULD LIKE TO HEAR YOUR WISE STORIES PLEASE.” In Dwight’s favour, his attitude was deferential and polite. To his detriment, he was bellowing loud enough to startle the squirrels outside the windows. Bruce looked up and frowned.  


“Young man, cease that caterwauling. I have excellent hearing aids and no need to pretend that I am at a Van Halen show.”  


Jim jumped in. “Hi Grampa. This is my coworker Dwight. From Dunder-Mifflin?”  


Bruce smiled, adding several dozen more wrinkles to his noble face. “You’re still there? Good man. I don’t like hearing about all these flighty young people with three or four careers. I worked for Robert Mifflin through the Depression and raised your daddy on paper money.” Out of the corner of his eye, Jim saw Dwight sink down, defeated. He couldn’t have planned it better if he’d scripted it. Good old Grampa.  


They chatted for the next twenty minutes about the industry, e-books (which both Dwight and Robert agreed were a fad), and if werewolves were a likely inhabitant of the nearby woods. (To Jim’s surprise, Bruce had also hunted werewolves in his time, but discouraged Dwight’s interest. “Young man, you’d be better off wondering about what that W is doing to those so-called Al Qaeda in those black ops sites. I’m sorry for your livestock but I’ve shot enough coyotes to know the difference in an animal carcass. Nail some more garlic to your doorjamb and forget about it.”)  
After the talk wound down, Bruce sent Dwight off to see if they could get an afternoon snack. “Tell them who sent you,” he commanded, and Dwight responded with his weird, looping salute before disappearing down the hall.  


“Nice boy,” he commented to Jim. “Reminds me of a dog I used to have. All bark. I could pretend to throw a ball all day with that one. Hilarious. But a good guard dog and extremely loyal. Died on the job, and I suspect your man will too, one day.” Jim smiled. Good old Grampa: always could see right to the heart of everything. As much as Dwight bothered the bejeezus out of him every day, Jim had also seen all of the good things that Bruce had pointed out, and they were enough to keep him from ever truly hating his coworker.  


“Thanks for seeing us today, Grandpa.”  


“Oh, you’re welcome, of course. It’s nice to talk paper, even if I’m not moving it these days. What made you decide on today?”  


“I, um. Dwight.” Jim was suddenly at a loss for words. The months of pranks at the heart of his and Dwight’s relationship seemed petty all of a sudden. Then his salesman instincts took over and he found the thread of his narrative. “Dwight didn’t believe me, that my grandpa had worked at the company. He likes to think he knows everything about Dunder-Mifflin.” Jim grinned. “I believe the words he used were, ‘if it’s true it might explain why this place took a chance on a floppy haired idiot like yourself.’”  


“I mean…” Robert’s own grin was like looking into a mirror, plus or minus a few thousand years. “He’s not wrong. When I started you at Dunder-Mifflin you were a teenager, more hair than brains. Your mom thought you would work out, and I was pretty sure the Halpert genes would be bred in the bone. And here you are,” he sat back, gesturing expansively, “a credit to the clan.”  


His smile vanished abruptly. “I almost lost that job, you know. I never told your father. Never told anyone.” Jim’s instinct for a good story started tingling or whatever it was that instincts did. He would have to be very careful; Robert was not a senile, loose-lipped chatterbox, and he would not just spill a juicy past like a paper cup of fruit cocktail.  


“What happened? Did you punch a hipster?”  


Robert huffed in amusement. “Not that time. No, this was the Depression. Offices were hoarding their stock, reusing everything. Couldn’t move a box of plain white if my pants were on fire. The only paper that was selling was pink - for the slips, you know. We were all about to go. I could smell it. The women were crying in the bathroom. I was the most junior salesman then, and your Gram had just had our first, your dad Gerald. I was the last one in the whole clan with a job. I knew that if I lost it we were done. Lose the house, have to try farming again.”  


His eyes had gone to the horizon, back in that cold office and staring down the doom of his young family. “We are shit farmers, Jimmy. Great salesmen. Shit farmers.”  


Jim shifted uncomfortably, taken in by his grandfather’s intensity. “Don’t say that in front of Dwight, Grandpa. I don’t think I can stand another hour-long lecture about correct beet sowing.”  


Robert hmphed. “Son, if we knew about beet farming I wouldn’t have been that desperate.  


“I could see Robert Mifflin Senior in his office. Good man. Bit of an asshole at Christmas with a few nogs in him. He’s got his head on his desk, just defeated. And I’m thinking, what do I have to offer him? What’s my play?”  


He looked at his grandson, took in the almost-handsome face and the lanky frame. “You might not believe this, young Jim, but in those days I was a sight more dapper than now.”  


“What?? No.” Jim protested and they laughed soundlessly.  


“It’s true. I was a sharp young man. Good hat. Nice shoes. You know. It always helped me with sales. I could charm the receptionists like billy-o. Their bosses didn’t mind looking at a nice young man either. They liked to think they saw themselves in me.  


“So. At this moment, I realize that I have one last card to play. I couldn’t sell paper, but maybe I had something else to offer. I was always taught that it was wrong, of course. But so much was changing in those days that the old rules barely seemed to matter. And I had your dad Gerry at home, just a little drooly chub, and that round pudding was counting on me. So I...did what needed to be done. And I kept my job.”  


“The nurse said that you could have fruit now, and to save your appetite for sticky toffee pudding.” Dwight had come back laden with bowls of sliced melon and grapes. Jim had been so focused on his grandpa’s story that he hadn’t even noticed the return of his moon-faced fellow traveler. Bruce had, though, Jim thought as they popped grapes and discussed the best way to dress a goose. Dwight, predictably, had a lot to say on the subject.  


_He didn’t want Dwight to know,_ Jim thought now. Just what had his grandfather done to avoid being made redundant?  


He got his chance to ask when they were about to leave. Dwight had started an intense conversation with another resident and the both of them were switching between German and English as they got more worked up. _That’s something we don’t see everyday. I don’t even think he knows he’s doing it,_ Jim marveled as he walked his Grandpa to the dining room for an early supper. He bent to tuck Robert into his seat. _Here goes,_ he thought.  


“So, Grandpa. What did you do?”  


“Hmm? I just sat down, son.”  


“No, I mean, the story. In the Depression? You didn’t tell me what you did to keep your job.”  


“Oh, that. I guess it doesn’t matter, since everyone except me is dead. Not a word to the rest of the family, mind me.” Jim nodded, suddenly breathless.  


His grandfather paused, the instincts of a veteran storyteller clearly at work. Robert smiled slightly, seeing Jim’s clear interest. “Robert himself only told one other person. It was after the Christmas party. We used to have our party in the office. Everyone was gone except for Robert and his brother Leslie. They were righteously pissed, son, just one more sip away from spending the night on the floor of reception, but Robert just had to drive home. Insisted on it, so there I was, loading him into his coupe. Like I said, he got to be an asshole with a bit of the nog in him.  


“His brother was in the front seat, completely passed out, but Robert talked to him like he was awake. He, sort of, waved at me. ‘Thisss’s Ruce. Bruce. Bruce’s a good boy. Real good boy.’  


"Robert slammed the door shut and revved the engine, looking straight at me and drooling a bit. “Good boy! Best cocksucker in Pennsylvania!’ And then he laughed like a loon and peeled away.”  


Bruce sat back, satisfied with the effect this last tidbit had had on his audience. Jim’s mouth gaped. He might never close it again.  
“Never before and never again, my boy, but you know what? He was right, I think.”

**Author's Note:**

> Today I slept late, and when I finally woke up I had the last revelation in this story banging about in my brain. So I built a story around it. The title alludes to the alternate title of "Kubla Khan" by ST Coleridge, probably the most famous and best piece of art rescued from a dream. I am no Coleridge, but maybe if he'd had access to _the Office_ on Netflix, he wouldn't be, either.
> 
> Note: the canonical beginning of DM is in 1949, as a metal fittings company, but since this is a dream story, I suppose it doesn't really matter. Everything else is canon-compliant, from Roy's brother and the jet skis to the name of Jim's dad (Gerald).


End file.
